The Last War Series Box Set [Books 1-7]

by Schow, Ryan

  At this point, all I want is to get out of the city, find my way to safer grounds and maybe, if it’s not too much trouble, discover a cabin in the woods away from everything and everyone. Something we don’t need to defend so rigorously. That’s not realistic, I know, but a girl can dream, right?

  Also, while I’m in La-La Land dreaming of the impossible, I’ll take one night in a bubble bath, a toilet with water in it instead of a pan and a good night’s sleep in a soft bed while not having to fear for my life.

  Ah, the pre-apocalyptic dreams of a bygone era…

  I open the door to Macy’s room and she’s lying there awake. Her fever has broken, feeling is coming back in her arm and she’s been alert enough these last twenty hours to become somewhat conversational.

  “I need you to get up today, honey,” I say.

  She starts to roll away from me, but the pain sticks her and she returns to her back, face up with that look that says she’s about to complain.

  “I’m up every time I have to pee,” she says, “or not take a hot shower or not have a hot meal.”

  “I know, baby,” I say, leaning down and kissing her forehead. “I just need to see how much strength you have.”

  “Why?”

  “Because we’re leaving here as soon as you’re healthy enough to travel.”

  “Where are we going now?” Macy asks.

  “Let me check your bandages.”

  Making an even more pained expression, she says, “It’s freezing, Mom. Can’t we do it later when my freaking lips aren’t blue?”

  “No.”

  Reluctantly she lowers the blankets and I look at the bandages. Peeking beneath both, I check the two bullet holes for signs of infection and find none. They’re both nasty looking, but healing. All the signs of her making a full recovery are there, which leaves me with an optimistic sigh.

  For years I worked in the ER, and for years I learned how to distance myself emotionally from the people I treated. But when it’s your own flesh and blood, that stoic part of you that can breeze through even the worst of tragedies sort of goes to pieces.

  Hello world, meet neurotic Cincinnati.

  “They look good,” I say.

  “Yeah, well they still hurt, if that’s what you’re wondering.”

  Reapplying the bandages, tucking her back in, I say, “We’re leaving tomorrow with Rider and the boys.”

  “Speaking of the boys,” she says, back under the comfort of her blankets, “who is that kid who had the Jeep? The one with the dark hair who drove us here.”

  “Hagan.”

  “Yeah, Hagan. He’s cute.”

  Something in me flares and I say, “Don’t.”

  “Don’t what?”

  I’m thinking of Rex and Indigo, and I’m wondering if dealing with the manic platitudes of a teenage romance will be that one thing that pushes me over the edge for good.

  “You’ve been shot, the city has turned into a cesspool, we’re not safe anywhere and you want to get that look in your eye—”

  “What look?” she says in mock defensiveness.

  “The one that says, ‘He’s so dreamy, oh Mom…’ That look.”

  Hands on my hips, I stare down at her and she looks up at me wondering if I’m serious, but I’m not one hundred percent sure so I just lock eyes with her and hold that stare until she finally relents.

  “He did save your life, you know.”

  “And I’m grateful for that,” I tell her. “But I didn’t tell you that so you could later use it against me.”

  “I’m not using it against you, I’m using it for me,” she says with a soft smirk.

  That smile of hers totally disarms me. For a second I see the little girl in her and it’s like I’ve got my baby back. Except she’s not a baby anymore. I can already see the woman in her emerging, and I know one day I’ll lose her to a boy, but I suppose that’s better than losing her to a bomb, or a burglary, or some kind of twisted accident.

  “His brother is cute, too,” she says. “And so is Rider if you’re into hot older guys.”

  “Stop!” I snap, but already she’s giggling and knowing she got me.

  “Oh my God, Mom,” she says. “Your face is as red as a cherry!”

  I steal a deep breath and crack a smile. The only reason I responded the way I did is because I know she’s right. “Forgive me for wanting my nearly-shot-to-death-daughter to stay with her mom a little while longer.”

  Her amusement dwindling with her energy levels, she says, “Serious Mom, who is he? Hagan?”

  “I’ll introduce you. In fact, I’ll get him now.”

  “No,” she all but shouts, pulling the quilt to her eyes. “I stink.”

  “You do,” I say. “Like really, really bad.”

  “And my breath is sour.”

  “You could set the world on fire with that dragon breath.”

  “And my hair’s a mess.”

  “A rat’s nest of tangles to be sure,” I quip. “But I’m certain he’ll love you because of your winning personality.”

  “I do have a winning personality,” she says with a start.

  “That’s what I said dummy,” I joke and suddenly we’re both laughing. “I love you, Macy.”

  “I love you too, Mom.”

  More solemn, savoring this moment together, I’m compelled to confess to her this thing that’s been festering inside me for a while now, this absolute truth.

  “I almost died back there thinking of you being hurt and not recovering,” I admit, my eyes misting over at the admission.

  “Don’t start crying again,” she says, softly. “Otherwise I’m going to start crying again and you said I need to keep my fluid levels up…”

  I cup her soft, warm cheek and say, “When you don’t smell so bad, I’ll introduce you to Hagan. In fact, if you want, I’ll comb your hair later today and you can wash up in the tub.”

  “With cold water.”

  “With really cold water,” I joke, wiping my eyes and laughing at the same time.

  “Where’s Uncle Rex?”

  I heave out an exhausted sigh, remind myself not to say anything I’ll regret. “Busy being in love with Indigo.”

  “No kidding,” she says deadpan. “Saw that coming a mile away.”

  “We all did,” I tell her.

  “Is she reciprocating?”

  “Don’t they all, to a point?”

  Frowning, Macy says, “Is Uncle Rex a he-slut?”

  Smiling enough to conceal my concern over the situation, I say, “He’d say no, but everyone else might say yes. He’s just looking for love.”

  “In all the wrong places?”

  With a sad chortle, I say, “So it would seem. Want me to make you some breakfast?”

  “An orange or an apple?”

  “An orange.”

  “Sure. Just don’t overcook it this time.”

  They say sarcasm is the sign of a healthy mind, but I’m not sure that’s true. Still, if Macy is well enough to talk about things like cute boys, he-sluts and cooked oranges, I’m thinking the world might just be alright again.

  When I head downstairs, Rider is sitting at the table with a half bottle of water. I can’t stop thinking about how he looks. He’s lean and GQ handsome, an alpha male through and through. I look away from him, refuse to present a false impression. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not falling for an older guy or a former soldier—this is me recognizing in him something I’m only now starting to see in Stanton: a steadfastness, a durability.

  Where my husband has to learn and adapt to this world, Rider has home field advantage to this kind of a nightmare. Stanton was never afraid of anything in his world because he mastered it. Now my white collar husband is but a wet calf in the apocalypse, a babe just trying to get his legs under him. Just when I think he’s doing alright, I see a guy like Rider and realize there’s something cold and unbreakable inside of him, something you can see but can’t quite define. Maybe Stanton is going to be
okay, but maybe he’s way out of his depths, too.

  “Is this what you do?” I ask him. “You just show up and wait for people in their living rooms and kitchens?”

  “It’s easier than knocking,” Rider says, sipping his water. “Plus I didn’t think you’d be doing anything terribly inappropriate with it being this early and colder than a witch’s tit.”

  “You men are lucky,” I say. “You can keep your hair short, you don’t need makeup and if you don’t shower in a few days, you don’t really smell that bad. And somehow through all of it you still manage to look amazing.”

  “Yeah,” he says. Then without an ounce of emotion he adds: “I’m thrilled out of my boots about the fringe benefits of my gender right now.” A smile creeps onto my face and he smiles in return, but it’s an anxious smile. A tempered smile. “If you’re worried about your looks around me, don’t. I’m not that guy.”

  “Did you come to tell me you’ve got someone waiting for you at the college and you’re eager to return?”

  The outer shell of him cracks. Not wide open, but enough for me to see inside, to see a man no longer indifferent about life. This is a man who is thinking about the woman he loves.

  “Wow,” I say, seeing him change. “You must really like her.”

  “She caught me off guard.”

  For a second I’m seeing the joy of love brightening the faces of my brother, my daughter and now this guy. It makes me think of when Stanton and I first got together. The first time he met my parents he looked so handsome, but he was nervous inside and I missed it. Thankfully. He was wearing grey Boss trousers, a pressed white shirt with cufflinks and a four hundred dollar tie. He had on a black pea coat and a patterned scarf and he’d just purchased his first Maserati. The very look of him stilled my young, clamoring heart, yet it pumped me so full of love and adoration my emotions bordered on obsession.

  Later in life I’d come to realize that for all the money he was making, for all his posh attire and sports cars and his plush downtown apartment, it was obvious he was overcompensating for something deep down—an insecurity I never really understood.

  Money was once his castle, the walls he hid behind when it came to the pecking order of men, especially über successful men in their early thirties. With all that money gone and his best skills worth almost nothing in this hellish new world, I’m starting to see signs of that man creeping back out again. I’m seeing his insecurities flare when he’s next to Rex or Rider.

  Now I think I just might understand why.

  His mother once told me he’d been bullied as a boy. She’d used the words “horribly bullied” though and it made me sad. I’m sad for him now, and maybe this makes me love him more, but it also makes me afraid because I know he’s going to spend day after day trying to prove himself to people like Rider. To people like Rex. Will that get him killed? Will I lose him because some asshole kids picked on him as a boy? I pray not. I pray every night. But I only do this because I’m once again falling in love with this man.

  “What do you want, Rider?” I ask, my mood changing. “Other than to get back home.”

  After thinking the things I’m thinking, all I want is go back to bed, curl up next to my husband and tell him to stay with me always. To never do something so stupid that he would leave me and Macy alone in this world.

  “That’s mostly what I want,” Rider answered. Studying me, he says, “But we need to be safe, too, and I feel an obligation to protect you, even though I don’t really know you. I know you’re good people, and if we have a community of strong, capable people, then maybe we can survive this situation, maybe even rebuild one day.”

  “I don’t want to stay in this city,” I say, sitting down, fashioning my blonde hair into a ponytail.

  He slides his water bottle across the table. I take a sip, not caring about where his mouth has been or if he’s a backwasher. These days, it doesn’t matter. Or maybe it does and I just don’t care this second.

  “Thanks,” I say, sliding it back.

  “We need to get out of this city, but first we need to thin the herd a bit.”

  “Thin the herd?”

  “In case you hadn’t figured it out,” he says, “there’s a play for the city that might make getting out of here tougher than you think. We’re surrounded by the fallout of the inner city’s gangs.”

  “Are you talking about The Ophidian Horde?”

  “Yes and no. The Ophidian Horde happened just before this. They’re an offshoot of the gangs in this city, just another pack of scumbags that found a way to grow and thrive in this God awful situation. Indigo has this thing going on inside her that’s a bit scary. It’s like me, but full of emotion. Hatred. A well of rage I’m not sure she can control.”

  “And that is?”

  “She wants to kill them all.”

  “Why?”

  “Did you see that pile of ash outside?” he asks.

  “Yeah.”

  “Did she tell you how those bones came to be there?”

  “Why would she?”

  “So you didn’t even bother to ask,” he says, not a question but a statement.

  “It’s not my business,” I reply, wondering where he’s going with this. I look at his water, raise an eyebrow and he slides the bottle back over. I take a sip, then another, then move it back and say, “Is that why she doesn’t want us going into that house?”

  “I went into the house.”

  “And?”

  “Dead girl with her head blasted open.”

  My stomach drops.

  “Isn’t that the house that Atlanta lived in?”

  “You tell me,” he says.

  If he knows something, he’s not letting on. Is he wanting me to ask about it more? To try to figure it out? God, I’m too tired for the games.

  “Is that…was that her sister?” I find myself asking.

  Atlanta’s face appears in my mind, specifically the sad look she’s always wearing. Does that explain why she’s so quiet? Why she’s so withdrawn?

  “I just got here, Cincinnati. Which is to say I don’t know. I’m just trying to put the pieces together without all the facts. Same as you. But the truth is I really don’t care. I’m not planning on staying, so the sooner we get the hell out of here and onto fortified ground the better.”

  “Is that why you’re here this morning?”

  He smiles me an answer, then takes a drink of his water and says, “Look at you, being the smartest kid in the room and all.”

  I hear Stanton coming down the stairs. He pops out into the kitchen and sees me and Rider talking. He gives nothing away in his eyes, but I know him well enough to know what he’s thinking.

  Inside I instantly feel crushed because all I want to do is crawl back into bed with him, pull him tight, pretend for a moment that none of this is happening.

  He sees Rider though, which means all the small talk about Atlanta and the college is about to turn to discussions of moving again. Did I tell you I’m sick of moving already? I am. I really, really am!

  “What’s up?” he says to Rider.

  “Time to go,” Rider replies. “If you want to go, that is.”

  “What are you thinking?” Stanton asks, focused on opening a can of mandarins. “The college, right?”

  “This is how we survive. We’re stronger together than we are apart. Plus there’s plenty of room there, and plenty of firepower to protect us all.”

  “What about Indigo?”

  “She can come if she wants.”

  “Did you see her house, Rider? She’s got her own little fortress and it’s stocked to the roof with food and supplies. And now it seems she’s taken up with my brother-in-law.”

  “I’m going to talk to her when she’s awake,” he says.

  “What if she says no?” I ask. “Because that’s a very real possibility.”

  “Then she’s putting her and her mother in jeopardy for some guns, some food and a bunch of blankets.”

 
“It’s more than that,” I admit. “She’s waiting for her father to come home.”

  “She’ll have to wait until the end of time if I’m right.”

  “If she stays,” Stanton says, “then we all stay.”

  Rider gives a slow, conciliatory nod. Clearly he isn’t impressed with the nature of the conversation, or where it’s headed.

  “This world is still free, so long as you have a gun and plenty of bullets. That means you’re free to stay or go, so long as you know you have the invite.”

  “If only it were that easy,” Stanton muses.

  He’s eating mandarin orange slices and unwrapping a granola bar that looks hard as a rock and dangerous enough to throw through a plate glass window. He pulls the foil wrapper back, bites down on it and makes a face like he might have cracked a tooth.

  “You need a hammer?” Rider asks.

  “More like a sledgehammer,” he jokes. “You want one?”

  “As a weapon or for the nutritional joy of it?”

  “You pick.”

  “Hell no,” he says.

  The way guys bond is so strange. It’s like they need a few minutes to sniff each other’s butts and decide how to conduct business in a manner that doesn’t involve ego or posturing, even though with men, there will always be both ego and posturing.

  Standing up, Rider says, “We’re leaving in the morning. Lenna and the boys are coming, and I’d like to take you guys and Macy, just to have Sarah check her out.”

  “I’m a nurse,” I say.

  “Yes, but I’ve got a real pharmacy,” he replies, and I can’t argue that logic.

  “We can always go and come back if we want,” Stanton tells me.

  “He’s right,” Rider adds.

  “You ex-military?” Stanton asks.

  “CIA.”

  “Black ops or pencil pusher?”

  There’s a glint of humor in his eyes and a smirk on his face, a combination I like because too much testosterone is a buzzkill for normal girls like me.